


Réveillon

by Big_Edies_Sun_Hat



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: And Not For Very Long Anyway, Angst, Biblical Reinterpretation, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gnostic Heresy, Historical, Holiday, International Travel, M/M, Not the Restaurant, Pre-Relationship, South Downs Cottage, medieval times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22166935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Big_Edies_Sun_Hat/pseuds/Big_Edies_Sun_Hat
Summary: After a gloomy history with Christmas, Aziraphale shows Crowley how he has learned to seek out the good in it by traveling around the world on Christmas Eve. Highlights include: the Annunciation; potholes; international teleportation; peace and hope; arson; Lupe gets a doll of her very own.-----“Have you ever been to a réveillon?” Aziraphale said.“Have I?” Crowley blew out a heavy breath as he thought. “Remind me. What is it?”“It’s a French custom. French and Creole. On Christmas Eve, people come home from midnight Mass and stay up all night at a feast. Course after course until dawn.”“Sounds exhausting. You must love it.”"... No."[Complete]
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 52
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Exchange 2019





	1. Before the End of Days

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princessofmind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessofmind/gifts).



> There are a lot of Easter eggs and hidden references in here, including two classic Christmas movies, although "classic" is a strong word for something that was on MST3K.

Every year since he had found himself in the cold, damp northern lands that came to celebrate Christ’s Mass instead of Yule, Aziraphale had always meant to look into the matter and find out whether, in fact, the herald angels _had_ sung. Every year he told himself to go into the archives of the office and look into it; every year he forgot; every following year, he wondered why he’d forgotten.

“If there were, _I_ wasn’t one of them,” he told Crowley in 1474, as they strolled through the Striezelmarkt in Dresden. “I was in Pasargadae, drafting a memorandum on the state of Zoroastrianism. Which I’m certain no one read.”

Crowley stopped what he was doing, which was silently inspiring a passing serving-maid to knock off for the afternoon and get drunk in the warm. He fixed an odd look on Aziraphale.

“And, er, the Annunciation and all? Was that not you?”

“Oh, no. Certainly not me. I did say. The whole thing was under Gabriel’s direct management. Bit of a pet project. He _must_ have done it, if it was done at all.”

“Must have? _If_? You’re not certain?”

It was not unusual for either of them to forget some matter of fact or doctrine upon which, somewhere in the world, wars had been fought. Human sources on the relevant events of the past six thousand years were, at best, advisory. But Crowley seemed surprised that he was unclear on this particular point.

“I’m certain that it wasn’t me,” said Aziraphale, a bit sharply. “That’s all. Look, I’m afraid I’ve got to be getting along now. Orders. You know how it is.”

“Now?” Crowley looked baffled. “You just said you wanted to stop for a piece of Weihnachtsstollen.”

“I know, I’m terribly sorry—” the angel patted his shoulder absently as he turned—“but it’ll have to wait. Next time? Call it thirty years?”

“What?”

But the angel was already striding away from him.

——

Neither of them had ever been very much for Christmas. One might have thought that Aziraphale would have loved the warmth and the wassail and the blazing plum puddings, or that Crowley would have loved the congestion and the envy and the thousand petty annoyances people visited on each other. Certainly Crowley had had his hand in those,[1] and certainly Aziraphale liked to drink mulled wine and fill out his holiday cards, but by and large, the two of them did not stir themselves for the Christmas celebrations all around them. It was difficult to muster up much heart for the birthday of a man they’d seen tortured to death.[2]

——

Aziraphale usually tried to avoid Crowley around Christmas Eve, even when he knew Crowley wasn’t far away. It was important that the demon understand that he was working hard around Christmas, or at least that he should believe that an angel would spend it lost in contemplation, serene in faith—something like that.

So he had left Crowley that day at the market, still polite, a bit abrupt, and gone in a roundabout way to the Cathedral of the Holy Cross. There, he knelt in a pew like any man, and prayed to forget what he knew every time he thought about the Annunciation, which was that he could not have done it.

He could never have done it. He couldn’t have gone and said such a thing to a girl in trouble—because that was what Maryam was, a little girl, and in as much trouble as she could be. But Gabriel would have done it, no doubt of that. He would have said _Be not afraid_ and so forth in that great warm voice, and he would have waited impatiently until the crying stopped and he could get something out of her that sounded like _Behold thy handmaid_. If he had done it at all, of course.

The whole thing would have gone horribly, if it had been up to Aziraphale. There could have been absolutely no paintings or tapestries about it. He would have stammered; he would have tried to pat her shoulder, to cheer her up, and it wouldn’t have worked. Maryam was still a child then, and children could always see through him somehow. He suspected that even if he had manifested in his full glory, crowned and fledged and glowing, she would have said: _it isn’t true, is it? It can’t be true_.

And he would have been unable to look her in the face and say anything other than: _no, my dear, I’m afraid it isn’t_.

It had not been true, until it _was_ true, until Her word and Her plan was revealed. And if any other angel carried the pain of it in his heart, Aziraphale did not know it; he did not dare ask. It would be many centuries before he found a way to bring joy out of the dark of the days of the year that brought young Maryam to mind.

——

Crowley had always tried to avoid Aziraphale around Christmas Eve, even when he knew Aziraphale wasn’t far away. The fuss over Christmas made him think of poor Joshua at every turn, whether he wanted to or not. And Crowley couldn’t forget what he knew, which was the Joshua bar Maryam he’d known was not a baby, not a man of soft hair and blue eyes, but a tough bastard with a hard jaw and one tunic to his name. Crowley had not yet forgotten, either, that he—or she, as it had been—had been angry with Aziraphale after that.

They’d argued afterward, on that Friday, in the shade of the roadside. A storekeeper had sold them some matzot, figs, and wine, but Aziraphale wasn’t eating, and Crowley wasn’t drinking.

“And it wasn’t true,” Crowley was saying. “All this time, it wasn’t true.”

“We have been over this,” said Aziraphale. “It wasn’t true until it _was_ true. And then when it was true, it had always _been_ true. She chose Joshua, She chose Athronges, She chose Theudas, and there was that Egyptian fellow, and some others—if it had been one of them, then it _would_ have been one of them, but as it was ...”

“Bloody cruel kind of a game, I call it,” said Crowley. “To sit and look at a load of Messiahs and see which one catches on. And then pick him to be the Son of Man, and torment him to death for being good at it.”

“That was bound to happen. Do you know what kind of a life expectancy a man has when he says that the Romans—”

“Bound to happen? Listen to you! The Lord could have stopped any of this. The Lord could stop any suffering, any day. You know that. You just pretend it’s all right that She doesn’t. You tie up these knots of logic and—”

It is difficult to get up and storm off when you have been seated cross-legged in the dirt, especially when you are wearing a robe. The extra seconds involved in straightening up and rearranging everything rob the movement of dramatic impact. Nonetheless, that was what Aziraphale did.

“What? Oh, come on!” Crowley waved her arm irritably. “It’s an argument, isn’t it, it won’t make you _fall_. Sit back down, would you? Eat this before the flies get it—oh. Well, they already have, haven’t they.”

To leave food untended for a few moments outside in Judea was to find it nearly black with flies. Aziraphale did not look; he remained stiff.

“You forget yourself,” he said.

“You never do,” said Crowley. She blew softly on the matzot, gently killing all the flies and reducing them to dust, then did the same with Aziraphale’s earthenware cup of wine. “Here, drink.”

She refilled the cup, held it out. Aziraphale took it, but he did not sit down again.

“I try all the bloody time, I tell you that,” she said, mostly to herself, as Aziraphale drained the cup.

“Try to what?”

“To forget myself. To forget—all this. _They_ figured out right away that that was the first thing they’d need to do on this blasted earth, was to forget.”

Crowley tilted the unpainted wine jug, listening to the liquid inside. Aziraphale, melting a little, looked down at her with pity.

“Oh, Crowley, I …” He trailed off, then started again. “I do hope you’ll come to understand.”

“What do you care what I understand?”

Aziraphale looked briefly into the distance, as if there were an answer there.

“Well, I do,” he said at last, reaching into a small purse for a handful of coins. “I really had better be getting along. Here’s, what was it, three _lepta_ for the wine and food?”

“You barely touched it.”

“Right. Still. There you are, anyhow. Goodbye,” he added, over his shoulder.

Crowley did not move to acknowledge him.

——

She—or he, as it had been—soon saw the angel again. “Soon,” in their lifetimes, amounted to about forty years.

Crowley had been irritable then—drinking again, trying to forget the loathsomeness of the Roman court, a place that needed none of his help to destroy souls. Then there was Aziraphale, in the midst of a crowded taverna, so sweet and forlorn and trying so very badly to make conversation. How could Crowley stay angry? He tried, and he failed.

Indeed, if either of them had ever truly been able to stay angry with each other, the history of the world, past and future, would have been considerably altered. But as it was, the demon came back, again and again, to the angel; and the angel at last chose to hold him.

And for those sins, they got what they deserved: each other, and a garden, and a warm old stone house by the sea.

[1] At various times and places, he had inspired the invention of loose tinsel; the Elf on the Shelf; the custom of lighting actual candles on a dead, sap-filled tree inside a wood-frame house; and the mall Santa.

[2] The fact that it was not even Christ’s birthday had ceased to matter ages ago. People _believed_ that it was, which was the main thing.


	2. Outside Eastbourne, 2019

This was simply how life was for people: things changed, and things changed fast. One year you spent Christmas alone, watching old movies through the bottom of a bottle; the next year, you saw your own name signed inside a bright red card for a boy you barely knew, because now you were his uncle by marriage.

That was not supposed to have happened to Crowley, of course. He wasn’t supposed to be people, for a start. He wasn’t supposed to be married.[1] And he wasn’t actually any kind of uncle to Adam Young; nor was his husband.

“We talked about _murdering_ him. More than _talked_ , you actually—”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, folding the card into its red envelope. “So we had better take very good care of him, wouldn’t you say?”

“We have been. Every two weeks.”

Aziraphale delicately licked the flap and sealed the envelope.

“We’ve been _watching_ him every two weeks,” he said. “That is not quite the same.”

“Why do you still lick envelopes?” Crowley leaned over the back of the sofa, arms folded. “I know I told you, I specifically suggested that those flaps would cut your tongue if you—”

“I’ve given this some thought,” said Aziraphale, with firmness. “We have to be there _for_ him. Not just there. He has to know that. He has to believe it.”

“Then where’s his present? Did you put a gift card in there?”

Aziraphale shut his eyes briefly.

“Can you be unhelpful in another room, please?”

“Right, I’m sorry. ‘S fine. It’s fine.”

But Crowley did not move from the sofa. He only sank back down and fixed his attention on his tablet for a few minutes, then said:

“You’ve got, what, another twenty cards left to go there? Why?”

“Well, they pile up, don’t they?” Aziraphale opened another. “I won’t get to clear off the list till the next time I’ve died.[2] One gets cards, and then one has to _send_ cards, or else where would we be?”

Crowley got up, stood quietly beside him, and set a gentle hand on his shoulder. There had been so much that Aziraphale had come to realize that he did not need to do anymore, that he did not need to fear. Some days there was still more of it.

“But you _don’t_ have to,” he said, in a low and meaning tone. “Not anymore.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, mild, not lifting his face from his writing. “Yes, I believe I do.”

“Why?”

“That’s how it goes. I just said—”

“That’s how it goes for _them_. Angel, you stood at _Golgotha_ with me. What came over you in the meantime that you picked up one of these cards and said, ‘I think I’ll send these to people who barely know me every year until we are all condemned to die’?”

“You still don’t understand,” said Aziraphale, in the even tone of someone who is refusing to have the argument to which he is invited.

“I don’t see why you—why you take part. Why you celebrate.”

“Celebrate? Good Lord, no. I don’t do _that_. What I do—Well, I haven’t said, have I? I never said—”

He set down his pen, then paused, and turned to Crowley.

“Have you ever been to a réveillon?” he said.

“Have I?” Crowley blew out a heavy breath as he thought. “Remind me. What is it?”

“It’s a French custom. French and Creole. On Christmas Eve, people come home from midnight Mass and stay up all night at a feast. Course after course until dawn.”

“Sounds exhausting. You must love it.” Without looking, Crowley reached into his back pocket for his phone. “That what you wanted to do? To go to France for the holiday?”

“No, no.” Aziraphale shook his head. “I was invited to a réveillon once—1905? I don’t recall. Anyway, I left early. I’m never very hungry on Christmas Eve.”

“You’re not?”

“No.” Aziraphale picked up his golden pen, turning it between his fingers. “Never in the mood for, well, for much of anything, come Christmas Eve. I can’t set my mind to reading. I can’t sit through performances. And you know I never used to sleep, of course, so I would—well, I’d go on a walk for the night. Till the dawn. I would think of it as a réveillon, just to myself. I never thought I’d come to tell anyone else. But I thought—I thought you might enjoy coming with me yourself someday. If things were different. And, well. Now they are.”

Aziraphale smiled up at Crowley in the way that had always ruined Crowley’s plans for being anywhere else for the immediate future.

“You mean, you want me to walk with you? All Christmas Eve?”

“Oh, yes, but not just to _walk_.” His eyes sparked with excitement. “Do you know, the Front Office never keeps an account of miracles on Christmas Eve? I found it out late—only two hundred years or so back. But it means I can do as I like, _really_ like. I can take care of people where I find them. On the street, generally, but not always just there. In fields, in shops, in byways—”

His smile faded.

“I don’t know what they’ll do now if they catch … I mean, if they were to count them. But I expect I’ll find out. I _am_ going. —Will you come?”

“Angel, you can’t …”

Crowley stopped himself. Of course he could. Aziraphale’s powers were his own, and so were Crowley’s; no one could stop either of them doing what they did. But their enemies could track them, _if_ they cared to look. Would they? Had they? What were the Offices planning now? These were the questions that gnawed at the edge of their peace every day. Someone would come for them. When?

Crowley ran through an entire argument in his head, and lost it.

“Well,” he said. “I mean, I have to, don’t I. It’s stupid, it’s dangerous, but I’m not going to talk sense into you, I know I’m not. And you can’t go alone, so.”

“I always have,” said Aziraphale, but Crowley took his hand.

“Not now, you’re not,” he said.[3]

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, after a pause. “Yes. That’s best. So. You’ll help me, then, won’t you?”

“What, with the widows and orphans business?” Crowley shrugged. “Maybe. If, _if_ you promise to let me do exactly as I please.”

“Of course I don’t. I’d never promise that. I know you.” Aziraphale squeezed his hand. “But you’d never do anything really wicked.”

“Look, I _am_ the Great Deceiver, you understand, right?” said Crowley.

“Well. In any case, do fill out one of these for Warlock while you’re here, will you?”

“Because I think sometimes you forget.”

“Come on now, he’s bound to miss you.” Aziraphale glanced briefly upward. “It only takes a moment. Don’t give me that look.”

Crowley said nothing, rather loudly, and snatched a blank card from the box.

[1] It was an open question as to whether he _was_. A certificate to this effect had silently appeared on file one morning, registering the marriage of Anthony J. Crowley and Ezra Fell in the appropriate jurisdiction; but, as with so many couples, they had to sort out quite a few problems with their families and jobs before they could begin to think about a wedding.

[2] Every few years or decades, the proprietor of A.Z. Fell & Co. wound up his outstanding business affairs and went out to the country, where he passed away shortly thereafter. In two or three months, the shop would reopen under the management of his son, nephew, cousin, or some other relative, who had inherited his predecessor’s command of the inventory and, apparently, much of his wardrobe.

[3] One night, in the dark, Aziraphale had said to Crowley: _if something should happen to these bodies, I don’t suppose we would ever get new ones. Can you imagine turning up again to submit a requisition form? Can you imagine …_

_No_ , said Crowley; _no. Better take care of this one_.

He kissed the angel’s shoulder then, trying to make a joke of it, to make him smile again; but after that, they both lay awake, holding one another, staring past each other’s shoulders into the silence.

They said nothing else about it, but after that, neither of them went very far away without leaving a good account of where he would be and when he expected to be back.


	3. There and back again, 2019

This was an ordinary sight for a comfortable suburb on Christmas Eve: a couple leaving their home in the silty light of the late afternoon, secure in their coats and their mufflers, locking up behind them as they went on a holiday visit. One of them headed towards the car in the drive, which was not an ordinary sight in any suburb: a Bentley in near-mint condition.

“No, not the car, darling,” said the other. “We go where we go.”

Crowley shrugged. He joined Aziraphale at the side of the winter-browned country lane, walking at no particular pace.

“So, how do you start?” Crowley said eventually. “You like to play Father Christmas? Turning up at shacks with a pile of dolls and things?”

“Oh, goodness, no. No, you can’t do that,” said Aziraphale. “When a child finds he’s got strange new toys, what do you suppose the family thinks? The poor thing gets beaten for stealing. Else the parents take the toys and sell them.”

Crowley nodded. Then:

“… This actually happened, didn’t it.”

“Only the once and I was _very_ sorry and I fixed it _right away_. Oh, now, look, there’s that pothole. They still haven’t sorted that.”

On any other day, this would have been a remarkably dull thing to say. Today, however, it had meaning. No sooner had Aziraphale spoken than the pothole was gone—not vanished, but as if it had never been.

“Potholes?” said Crowley, with a slight air of injury. In his former line of work, he had been very fond of them. “Are we just going to walk along doing the council’s job for it? Where are we going?”

Aziraphale took his hand.

“Come and see,” he said.

And with that, they were gone.

——

An angel or a demon can, of course, pass through short spaces as a pin passes through gathered fabric. It attracts no attention from Above or Below if they move across a room, or even a street, in this fashion; but to travel across the globe all at once this way would be extremely bold.

On Christmas Eve, Aziraphale dared to move more than he usually did, but even so, he passed through the world every thousand miles, at the least. He did so unseen; it cut down on explanations. And not every situation, as even he had come to admit, was improved by the sudden appearance of an Englishman, no matter how cheerful and kind he might be.

——

At Heathrow, a border control agent admitted each waiting soul in her line to the United Kingdom, with a warm smile and a “happy Christmas to you.” Several hours later, when her own personality returned, she would have a panic attack and go to the hospital.

——

On the coast of France, in a nameless camp, a tent shared by a family of five was suddenly warm. There was no dramatic moment in which they came to realize this; it was simply that they were able to sleep, more or less. In the morning, their mother would find five loaves of bread that no one could remember buying, and that would be a great deal more dramatic.

——

In a crevice between buildings in Berlin, a young woman who sat mounded under a layer of moving blankets felt a deep movement in her gut, strange but not bad. She did not yet realize it, but she would not need her fix in the morning, or ever again. That sickness was gone from her body, and it would not come again.

She had a vague idea that a man had just stopped to touch her, but that had to have been a dream—he hadn’t tried to do anything awful. He had simply gone away, joined another man, and walked into a convenience store across the street. She pulled her blanket tight, and tried to sleep again.

——

Convenience store coffee is a concept, rather than a pleasure. The concept is warmth and wakefulness, and Crowley needed the first, if not the second. The pair of them took their cups of coffee from the Spätkauf and wandered down the street, which would have been a dangerous route if anyone else could have seen them.

“The truce,” said Crowley suddenly. “Christmas Eve. 1914. When the Germans and the British wouldn’t fight. Sang songs instead, and drank to each other. That was you, was it? Passing through on your walk?”

“Well,” said Aziraphale, with a modest smile. “Yes and no.”

“No?”

Aziraphale sipped his coffee.

“It wasn’t my idea, you see. The soldiers thought of it themselves. Lots of them, in different places, different years.”

“Ah.”

“I _was_ there then. I’d thought of something like it before I came. I thought I could give them their peace as a gift. But it was already there. Just below the ground.”

The two of them had slipped through space again; now they were traveling on foot through fields far to the west of the city. The stars hung clear and cold above; the frost crackled beneath their boots.

“Fragile thing, of course, a Christmas peace,” said Aziraphale.

“’Course it is.”

“ _She_ was there again, soon enough. War is … I couldn’t …” Aziraphale stared away, toward the amber lights of the nearest town. “But one does one’s best.”

Crowley took his arm; and they passed on.

——

Miles to sea off Cabo Verde, the third officer of the freighter _Chelsea_ picked up a distress signal from a sinking fisherman. How the freighter had come to pick up the weak and antiquated radio signal from the weak and antiquated boat when it was well out of range, no one quite knew. What was certain was that the freighter’s aid saved five lives that night.

The captain of the boat swore that an angel had sent the _Chelsea_ , but that was the kind of thing he said; he had once sworn that an angel had sent Cristiano Ronaldo. No one paid much mind to it, which was all right with the angel who _had_ sent the _Chelsea_.

——

“Crowley, wouldn’t you like to think of something? Something ni—something in the spirit of the thing?”

“Right. I said I would, didn’t I. Well. Er. Shall we—oh, right, here. I know _this_ place.”

——

In Bermuda, the weather was generally quite nice on Christmas Eve. As it was a particularly British island and very wealthy, no one paid much attention to a pair of rather overdressed and visibly British gentlemen on a promenade in Hamilton, looking seaward. This was also because half the fire department was barreling down the street on the other side, towards the harbor.

“Generally,” said Aziraphale, “and, I should say, ideally, in my experience, Christmas Eve does not involve arson.”

“Arson,” said Crowley cheerfully. “That’s a rough word for something that just sparked up in a bit of old rope, isn’t it?”

“It sparked because you _looked_ at it.”

“True. True.”

“You set a ship on fire!” snapped Aziraphale.

Crowley leaned against the railing and into the breeze.

“Ship? She was a yacht. And she was empty. Don’t you know whose that was?”

Aziraphale only stared. Crowley told him.

“He’s one of ours. I mean Hell’s. Most CEOs are.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “Oh. Well. I, er. I still disapprove.”

“No, you don’t.” Crowley winked. “She’ll burn to the waterline. She’ll ruin Christmas morning for him. Just like _he_ ruined Christmas morning with, what was it, two thousand job cuts?”

“You are absolutely not entering into the spirit of the thing,” said Aziraphale, biting back a smile.

“Oh, I think I am. —Where to?”

——

After a busy half-hour in Manhattan, they paused for more terrible coffee in Washington Heights.

“Just there,” said Aziraphale, waving at the High Bridge. “Eighty—no, eighty-two years, it must have been, not long before the war—I found a young man on this very bridge. Standing on the railing. He thought I was mad to come after him. I let him think so. It gave him an interest in life.”

“Did it work?” Crowley warmed his hands on the coffee. He had long ago given up trying to tell Aziraphale that people generally _did_ think he was mad.

“So far as I could see. I sat with him. Took a bit of the pain away.” Aziraphale looked down into the river. “I walked him about until we found a place that would take him into the warm and give him a hot toddy. Which rather took some doing on Christmas Eve. People were _awfully_ rude. I kept telling him stories, ridiculous things, just to keep him laughing at me. Seemed to do the trick. I saw him home. I told him he would do very well for himself in a solid line of work, if he looked. And I meant it, too. I gave him my blessing.”

Crowley was suddenly attentive. An angel’s blessing was not just a word of kindness; it was a powerful thing.

“What, er,” he said, “what line of work was he in, do you recall?”

“He said he was a scenario writer for the motion pictures. No kind of career for a man with a young family, I should think.” Aziraphale sniffled, and pulled his peacoat tight over his shoulders. “I do hope he settled himself.”

“I expect he did all right,” said Crowley.

——

There are, of course, worse places to be on Christmas Eve than in a Walmart, but if you are in a Walmart on Christmas Eve, none of those places will spring to mind. A Walmart is a particularly sorrowful place to be if you are very small and have no money, which was the case for Lupe, age six, of San Antonio, Texas. Her mother was doing her best under difficult circumstances, but Lupe promptly got herself lost. A staff member eventually found her in an empty toy aisle, talking to an imaginary friend, and delivered her back to her mother.

Later, Lupe’s sister said: “Why did Mama buy _you_ a doll at Walmart? Where’s mine?”

“She didn’t,” said Lupe. “Slenderman was giving them away. He said not to tell any grownups. He said I could take anything I wanted.”

“Wh—? Slenderman’s not _real_.”

“Well, that’s what he looked like,” said Lupe. “But redhead. And nice.”

“Okay, that’s dumb, and that’s weird, and I’m telling Mama.”

“I got one for you too,” said Lupe.

“You did?” said her sister. “What kind?”

——

“Crowley, I specifically told you what would happen if you gave things away to chil—”

“—And I remembered it. Nobody over twelve can see those toys. Anyway, they’ll forget all about them by New Year’s. Wouldn’t need _me_ to do that.”

——

But this was a dark and difficult country to help, and there were only the two of them. Some of what they saw, they never spoke about again.

Where the angel could help, he did: he brought warmth to those huddled outside, he found food to hide near them, he lifted the pain that their bodies held; and he gave them his blessing. To warm the cold, to heal the sick, to find food for the hungry: these things he could do.

To ask why they were cold, why they were sick, why they were hungry: that was not what he had been made to do. He did not have the strength or the right to interfere in the kingdoms of the world, except as he was directed. And now there was no one to give him direction, and no one to keep him from asking.

He said none of this out loud. What he did instead was to stop abruptly in an empty parking lot in San Francisco and throw his arms around Crowley. Crowley said nothing out loud himself, only held Aziraphale’s head against his shoulder as the angel breathed hard and deep, his shoulders shaking.

——

What Crowley did say, eventually, was:

“Cocoa. You need it. Don’t argue. —Unless you want tea instead. But no caffeine.”

The sky was only just dark in San Francisco, and there, they had no need to go unseen. It was entirely all right for two men of a certain age to walk hand in hand together, looking for the warmth of the wider world. They found a bar still open, a kind bartender, and a cup of spiked hot chocolate—powdered cocoa, perhaps, but real cream and good rum.

In the next week, the bartender would learn that she had been awarded a grant for her paintings, the first in a chain of events that would lead to her never needing to tend bar on another Christmas Eve.

——

There were ships at sea, again, and Anchorage, and Hokkaido, and beyond. There were hidden food caches, and miraculous remissions, and dreams of peace for those who could have nothing more. There were also mysterious fires in corporate offices, accidental data leaks that would come to bring down politicians, children with unaccountable toys, and very lucky pickpockets.

There was, in short, a merry Christmas, more so for some than for others.

——

In the violet-blue of coming dawn, a nice suburban couple unlocked their doorway and returned home with no more fuss than any other family returning home exhausted from a long Christmas trip. The door shut hard behind them.

Crowley was hanging his long black duster and scarlet scarf on the hooks beside the door when he noticed that Aziraphale had not moved from his place on the doormat, that he was staring across the room, disconsolate.

“You all right?”

“I’m tired,” Aziraphale said. “That’s all.”

That was not, of course, all, and Crowley knew it. He stepped softly behind Aziraphale and reached around to unbutton his double-breasted peacoat.

“It was your show,” Crowley said. “I thought you said you’d always liked doing this.”

“Did I? I shouldn’t think I would have said that. ‘Liked’ is not the word. It is _good_. It is the very least I can do.”

Crowley took the peacoat and hung it up. He returned to Aziraphale and began to unbutton his jacket, then his waistcoat, with the quiet attention of a valet.

“But … it takes so much. This year, I … it was more than I could bear.”

Crowley took the jacket and the waistcoat away and hung them on hooks, then returned again to Aziraphale. Without a word, he embraced him from behind, buried his chin in his shoulder, held him still. Aziraphale leaned back into him, bearing a weight.

“I should like a bath,” he said at last.

“Go and have one,” said Crowley. Upstairs, there was the squeak of a tap opening, then the mild, good sound of water pouring into an empty tub. “Then come to bed. Don’t do that, that _thing_ you do where you sit up worrying and tell me you were reading all night. You promise?”

——

Later, in the milk-blue light of dawn, Aziraphale came to bed, careful and quiet in his cream-colored flannel. Crowley slid over in his satin pajamas and lay across his chest, breathing him in, as he did whenever he was allowed to.

“There you are,” he muttered, settling himself, curling his fingers into the crook of the angel’s neck. “There you are.”[1]

Aziraphale clasped his hand tight, and was wordless.

“How are you?” Crowley said. “Better now?”

Aziraphale’s answer hitched in his chest.

“Christmas Eve was easier before,” he said at last.

“Without me?”

“No, no, no. I’d wished you could come along for ages. Only, before—then there was a Plan, you see.”

“Mmph,” said Crowley. He did not miss the Plan.

“I _believed_ it. I … I truly believed that it did not matter that I couldn’t help everyone. That it was not cruel or random to help one without helping another. That it was well that I should go back and be safe and warm in my shop, that in some grand accounting it would all be made right. And now …”

“Now what?”

“That’s it exactly. Now what?” There was pain in the angel’s voice. “Now what can I do for them? What can I _not_ do for them? Why did I come home? Why should I have a home? Should I not spend myself? Should I not leave this house, should I not—”

“Shh. Shh—”

“—should I not go? Why not?”

Crowley raised himself and pulled himself level with Aziraphale’s face.

“Because a demon has possessed you and bound you to this house with wards and sigils strange. Sort of thing. At least till morning.”

Aziraphale smiled weakly.

“It _is_ morning.”

“No, it’s not,” said Crowley, stroking his white-golden curls. “Doesn’t count as morning till you’ve been asleep. And the trick is, if you sleep long enough, everything hurts less.”

He pressed the length of his hand against Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale swiftly did the same, then buried both hands in Crowley’s overgrown red locks.

“Think about sorting everyone else out when you’re sorted out, right, angel?”

“My love, you’re so good to me—so good at heart—”

“No, I’m not,” said Crowley, the heat rising in his cheeks. “I’m selfish. I’m keeping you.”

Aziraphale’s gaze was cobalt in the low light. Crowley kissed the crest of his brow.

“You want to do more,” he said, “or you want to do things differently, then we’ll see how we can make it happen. In the morning. Which is not now. Morning might be three P.M. at this rate. And besides—”

He began to unbutton Aziraphale’s pajama top, then ran his fingertips through the pale golden hair on his chest. The angel shivered.

“—what’s anyone done for _you_ for Christmas?”

Even now, every time he saw that Crowley wanted him, there was a brief and sudden light of awe in Aziraphale’s eyes, an amazement that such a thing could be for _him_.

“Oh, you cannot mean it,” he said; but he began to pull apart Crowley’s own buttons. “At this hour? A double entendre? You are unbelievable.”

Crowley kissed his mouth hard and quick, then said:

“You have to believe me. You have to know what you are. Not what you were meant to do, _you_. How else do I show you?”

Tears started in the angel’s eyes. With one finger, he traced the loops of the snake tattoo on Crowley’s temple.

“Terrible man. Wonderful, terrible man. How did I ever go through this without you?”

“Let me take care of you,” Crowley whispered.

“If you’ll have me—”

“Always,” said Crowley, and bit gently into his neck.

——

Beyond, beneath the low haze of clouds blown in from the sea, lay the rest of the town, where, in houses and apartments and cottages, children were one by one squirming awake and slinking downstairs to see what Father Christmas had done. And in these houses and apartments, couples had fallen exhausted to bed, chasing what sleep there was left.

Most of them slept with their backs to each other, pushed apart by the heat of the holiday, the stress of the presents, the ordeal of surreptitious toy assembly. Some couples—these mostly in homes without children—slept closer together, granted a peace that did not come out of simple spent passion but from the steady warmth of a lasting love.

One such couple stayed asleep long after the others had risen, made themselves tea, and dressed for whatever Christmas Day might bring. Outside this couple’s home, a car passed now and again, winding its way to dinner at one grandmother’s house or another.

“They’ve fixed that pothole. Took them long enough,” one driver murmured to his wife as they passed.

“Mmph,” was all the answer he got; but then, it had been a remarkably dull thing to say.

[1] He said this every time he got Aziraphale where he wanted him, alone. At first, Aziraphale thought it was only gentle nonsense; then he remembered what Crowley’s face had looked like when Crowley had lost him. _There you are_ : when he said it, he meant it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to die_traumerei for the beta read and great comments!


End file.
